


Blinding

by rei_c



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Happy Murder Family, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Pack Bonding, Pack Dynamics, Pack Feels, Scent Marking, Scenting, Scents & Smells, Scott McCall is a Bad Alpha, Scott McCall is a Bad Friend, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski Wants The Bite, Wolf Instincts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 06:36:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14038326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: "What's changed is me, I think," Stiles says. "Pack-adjacent used to be enough. But now I know that the only thing mimicking the bonds enough that they can't tell something's wrong ismeand I'm doing it because it's easier to let -- easier than telling them," he says. "I'm worried. That I'd lose it. The pack."But Stiles doesn't care about the pack, not if he's already come far enough to practically exile himself right out of it. There's only so much magic can do to create fake bonds after a statement like 'they're not my pack.' So why would he -- "You'd still have us," Derek says.





	Blinding

Stiles is sitting cross-legged on the ground and staring up at the house when Derek finds him. He looks calm as he stares at the ruins of Derek's childhood home, doesn't look like he knows Derek's there, but when Derek sits down next to him, wraps a blanket around Stiles' shoulders, Stiles leans into the action and tilts his head enough to show off his jaw in welcome. 

Derek accepts the invitation, rubs his nose along Stiles' cheek in reciprocal greeting. He can't help using every one of his advanced senses to try and get a read on what might be upsetting Stiles enough to make their pack bond thrum dark and worried; as clever as Stiles is, Derek always needs every advantage he can get and tonight is no different. No different, but it doesn't help -- Stiles' scent is unreadable, his heartbeat is steady, even a little slow for what passes as Stiles' normal. There's a faint tinge of Deaton on Stiles' clothes, such a light hint that Derek isn't sure if the visit happened today or if the clothes remember it from before. 

"Is that a spell?" Derek asks. He opens his mouth as he inhales this time, letting the scent hit the back of his throat. Still nothing more than detergent, soap, car exhaust, books, Deaton. 

Stiles nods, doesn't explain it. 

Derek hums, says, "Impressive." 

"Is it?" Stiles asks, almost snaps, angry. "Is that -- is that it? _Impressive_? That's all you're gonna say about it?" 

"Should I say anything else?" Derek asks. "Because it is. You didn't blank everything out, you hid it and put the feel of a baseline-normal human on top, and I can't detect an obvious trigger. Hiding takes skill and hiding _how_ you did it takes even more."

Stiles just -- deflates. His back curves, a little, shoulders dipping down, head bending to look at his legs, his lap, instead of the house. "Not gonna lecture me about playing with magic that's beyond my control?"

Derek shrugs one shoulder. "Not necessary," he says. "It's obviously not beyond your control if you're doing it."

"Not gonna thank me?" Stiles asks, quieter this time, tone finally starting to match the tenor of their bond, the flaring sparks of hurt and deep, implacable fury. 

" _Thank_ you?" Derek asks. "Why would I do that? I can't smell you; do you know how -- oh."

Stiles snorts. "Yeah," he says. "Oh." He fidgets a little, picks at some dirt under one of his nails. "They don't want me around. They don't even want my scent to linger. I couldn't figure out why, until --." He changes tack, then, sidestepping to an entirely different thread of conversation, says, "Scott came once. At the beginning, after Peter -- y'know. He asked me how I was doing, looked really concerned. You know the look."

Derek's lips twitch. He has no idea where Stiles is going with this but god, he knows exactly what Stiles means. "Yeah," he says. "I know the look. The one where he's so earnest and worried that you can't help but want to punch it right off him."

Stiles laughs. The sound is short, hard, something that sounds more like Peter than Stiles. "I told him I was fine," Stiles says. "Told him -- I don't know what I told him. Not the truth. We watched tv, ate some junk food, and he left. I had a panic attack that night." 

"I know," Derek says. "I was there." It was the first time he'd ever seen Stiles that out of control, the first time he truly heard fear in Stiles' heartbeat, smelt the waves of despair seeping through his skin, through his clothes. It was the first time he ever held Stiles, put his nose to the curve of Stiles' neck and inhaled deep enough to scent him, hated Scott with such fierce, fierce gratitude. 

That was the night their pack bond took hold, the tenuous thread cementing firm and grounding them both. 

"Yeah, but see," Stiles says, "that's the thing. You came through the window and I told you the exact same thing I told Scott. But you didn't leave. You stayed until my dad woke up." 

Derek frowns, says, "Why would I leave? You were getting ready to have a meltdown. I didn't want you to go through that by yourself." Stiles glances at him. "Look," Derek says, "I may be an asshole but I'm not a dick." 

"Scott never came again," Stiles says, looking back down. "Even when I wanted him to. But you did." 

"Whether you wanted me to or not, yeah, I know," Derek says. "What are you really trying to say here, Stiles?" 

Stiles lets out a breath, rearranges his legs, reaches up and itches at the back of his skull before pulling the blanket tighter. It's the most movement Derek's seen since he got here. It relieves him. There's something wrong about seeing Stiles so still. 

"He's not a good alpha," Stiles finally says. "For me or for anyone else. Is he." 

Derek opens his mouth, closes it again. There are things he could say in Scott's defense, things about him being a bitten wolf rather than a born wolf, things about him wanting to protect the only true link he has to his humanity, things about trust and fragility and silence and why someone who sees the world with hope could never understand someone who only sees in shades of black and white and grey, things about possession and loss and savage, all-consuming devotion. Those things would be true, in some measure, but they would all be excuses. "No," Derek says. "He's not." 

Stiles nods. "I asked Deaton for a spell a few weeks ago," he says. "I wanted to see the pack bonds. I thought maybe I was missing something, maybe I just took the ones I had for granted, but -- the only people in the pack I have bonds to now are you and Peter. My bonds to the others are only -- Deaton called them simulacra but they're echoes, more like, made of magic and completely fake. Apparently the magic was strong enough to keep the others from noticing -- we don't even know when I -- when they broke." 

He pauses, exhales. Derek wants to take time to consider it: Stiles magicking up pack bonds strong enough to fool an alpha; Stiles disconnected from the others to such an extent that the bonds broke; the only bonds left being with Derek and Peter; the fact that Stiles trusts Deaton enough to ask for such a spell. He doesn't, though. He'll have time to think about it later. 

"You came _every time_ ," Stiles says. "When you couldn't, you sent Peter."

"I volunteered," Peter says. "You know that Derek can't make me do anything I don't want to." 

Derek felt his uncle approach, doesn't jump at the sudden interjection, but Stiles doesn't react either. If he's too out of it or emotional to have noticed Peter's arrival, that's one thing, but combined with the heartbeat, the scent -- Derek wonders just how much other magic Deaton's been teaching Stiles. Or, no -- Peter and Stiles have been spending a lot of time together over the last year; it's possible that their bond is just as strong as Stiles' bond to Derek.

"Keep that up and I might think you like me," Stiles says. 

Peter laughs, joins them, sits on the ground on the other side of Stiles. Derek feels his eyebrows rise; Peter likes the dirt about as much as he likes Scott. "You've always been my favourite," Peter says. "And we both know it, just like we both know I was aiming for you that night. We all would have been better off if Scott hadn't gotten in my way." 

"Not the only time you've tried," Stiles says. 

Derek feels the change flare through his eyes, feels his teeth come out. "What." 

Peter waves a hand, says, "I offered later. Our dear Stiles refused and I might have been out of my mind but even I'd learned my lesson about biting the unwilling." He pauses, sighs. "You would have made a truly excellent wolf, Stiles. I cannot say it enough." 

"You -- never again, Peter," Derek says, manages to say. "Fuck."

"Well, obviously," Peter says. "I'm not an alpha." There's a pregnant pause, one that Derek feels sink into the back of his throat, before Peter asks, too casually, "Have you changed your mind, Stiles? Going to ask Scott for the bite?" 

Stiles response is immediate. "No. I'm not going to ask Scott for the -- just, no." Derek looks at Peter over Stiles' head. Peter's eyes flick in Stiles' direction and Derek frowns; Peter does it again. "Oh, for -- stop talking about me behind my back," Stiles says. 

"Over your head, actually," Peter says. "You're slouching. Sit up straight and we'll be forced to talk to you rather than around you." 

Derek is just getting ready to be offended when Stiles straightens his back, squares his shoulders, elbows Peter in the ribs. "Bossy sociopathic zombie wolf," Stiles mutters. 

"Slow weak puny human," Peter snaps right back, but there's no heat, nothing mocking, just a lazy affection that Derek remembers from before the fire. Peter's always been sharp, vicious, even a little cruel; the disregard came later. Peter's been losing that disregard inch by inch over the past months. Apparently Stiles had more to do with it than Derek thought. "You'd be better off shedding that ridiculous skin of yours; you're already further along than the rest of your little pack."

"They're not my pack," Stiles says. "I don't -- they used to be. I'm not entirely sure when that changed. But with the -- but they aren't. I'm pack-adjacent, I guess." 

Peter hums, says, "So this is what you've been so preoccupied with lately. Stiles, I could've told you that you don't belong with them."

"You _could_ have told -- you _have_ been, Peter," Stiles says, scowling. "Practically since the day we met."

"Which is why I find it interesting that you're giving it this much thought. Again." Peter asks, "What's changed?" 

Stiles lets out a huff, runs one hand through his hair, shakes his head like he isn't going to say anything but then confesses, "What's changed is me, I think. Pack-adjacent used to be enough. But now I know that the only thing mimicking the bonds enough that they can't tell something's wrong is _me_ and I'm doing it because it's easier to let -- easier than telling them," he says. "I'm worried. That I'd lose it. The pack." 

But Stiles doesn't care about the pack, not if he's already come far enough to practically exile himself right out of it. There's only so much magic can do to create fake bonds after a statement like 'they're not my pack.' So why would he -- "You'd still have us," Derek says. "You'd still -- we aren't going anywhere." 

"Scott's your alpha," Stiles says, "and you both need the bonds to him," like it's plain and simple. 

Unfortunately, it kind of is. Solving the problem would mean joining a different pack, one that would also suit Stiles, and -- Derek doesn't have it in him to share Stiles with anyone else. It's hard enough sharing him with Peter, sometimes. 

Derek sees Peter's eyes narrow, realises that Peter's caught something in this conversation that Derek hasn't. Not for the first time, Derek wonders what Peter would have been like if he'd inherited Talia's alpha right after the fire instead of Laura, if he hadn't been comatose for years and crazy enough to kill his own niece. 

"Well," Peter says, " you wouldn't take the bite from me --" 

"Because we're far too much alike for that to be a great idea," Stiles points out. 

"-- and you won't take it from Scott," Peter goes on. 

"Because I don't want him as my alpha," Stiles says. 

Peter's lips are curving into a smile too pointed for comfort. "Would you take it from Derek? If he was an alpha again and he offered, would you accept?"

Derek's heart skips a beat. He knows Peter hears it, can feel the look Peter's giving him, but Stiles hears it too, must, because he looks at Derek, right at Derek, and says, "I'd take it from you. If you were an alpha again, and you offered, I'd say yes." 

"Jesus," Derek says. "Warn a guy."

Stiles grins, a real smile, one that hits his eyes and warms them up. "It's not that I want to be a wolf, not really," he says, "not like the others did. But I want -- this. Does that make sense? I couldn't give a fuck for the speed or the claws or the hearing, and it would be better if you had a human, but I -- I want _pack_."

Derek looks at Stiles, just drinks in the sight of Stiles sitting here, saying these things, like he hasn't just encapsulated everything about being a werewolf that Derek loves. It's a Hale thing, this insistent yearning for pack, for pack bonds, for connection. 

He moves, leans enough to rub his cheek against Stiles', and is completely and utterly shocked, now that he's looking for it, to see how much that makes Stiles relax -- and instantly. There's an air of tension just _gone_ from around Stiles, and when Peter throws an arm around Stiles' shoulders, on top of the blanket, it doesn't look like Stiles even has to think about it to turn around, lift his chin and let Peter draw his teeth up Stiles' neck. 

"Wow," Derek says, with a dazed sense of recognition at the level of trust Stiles just placed in Peter, all without saying a word, no hesitance or discomfort about giving the softness of his throat to a blue-eyed beta. "How much time have you two really spent together?"

Stiles laughs and Peter flashes eyes at Derek, drawls out, "Why, nephew? Are you jealous?"

Derek can only blink, say, "Actually, yes, a little."

"No need," Stiles says, and he's still grinning as he shifts enough to extend Derek the same pale vulnerability, eyes closed and waiting. 

"Are you --"

Stiles cuts him off, says, "Derek," like that's both an answer and a plea, a declaration of trust so visceral that it curls Derek's toes in his boots and the offering of a gift so precious that Derek can't believe he's been deemed worthy.

Derek leans, takes his time drawing his nose up Stiles' neck first, trying to reach past the spell Stiles is wearing. He can't, the thing's impenetrable, and Derek's simultaneously proud and disappointed. "Next time, you'll take the spell off," he half-murmurs, half-growls, and Stiles only hums in agreement. Derek licks, next, just a couple short, darting things, one at the curve of Stiles' adam's apple, one behind his ear, one where neck and shoulder meet. Then he takes a deep breath to steady himself, to make sure he's doing this with blunt human teeth, and draws a line up Stiles' throat. 

Stiles has gone boneless, makes a whining sound in the back of his throat that he doesn't even attempt to cut off the way he cuts off so many words and sounds and movements around the others. The noise of it rings in Derek's ears as he nips once, twice, at Stiles' jaw and the fluttering pulse point, then backs off. 

Derek opens his eyes, hadn't even realised he closed them, and looks at the way Stiles trembles, bottom lip caught in his teeth, looking for all the world like he's on the verge of orgasm. He glances down, just to be sure, but -- there's no sign of arousal. This just means _that much_ to Stiles, enough to send him into short, shocky inhales and shaking hands, the bond between them white-hot and brilliant with trust. 

Peter pulls Stiles close, murmurs, "Beautiful boy," and Derek's there as well, taking Stiles' hands as Stiles calms, licks his lips, opens his eyes. 

"Pack," Derek says, when it looks like Stiles is waiting for a reaction. "Screw 'em; we never belonged with them anyway. You're ours." 

Stiles smiles, then chuckles, then laughs, throwing his arms around Derek, clinging in a different way than when he's had a panic attack or Derek's been hurt. Derek realises, finally realises, that Stiles has been holding himself back just a little, just enough, and that the very thorough scenting Derek just subjected him to was the last answer in a series of tests that Stiles has been putting him through to earn something more than devotion or loyalty. 

"Would you?" Stiles asks, practically breathes into Derek's ear. "Would you offer me the gift?" 

"In a heartbeat," Derek says. "Do you want me to go hunt one down?" 

Peter laughs, says, "Let's be realistic, nephew. In this scenario, Stiles and I will do the hunting and leave the kill for you." 

"And why would I trust you to hunt one down and leave it for me?" Derek asks, the tone teasing but the question deadly serious, eyes glinting as he meets Peter's gaze. 

Peter reaches out, runs his fingers through Stiles' hair. The lines of Peter's face have gone slack and open with unguarded fondness. "He won't take the bite from me and I'd rather have Stiles in our pack than be an alpha without him." 

Derek studies the two, thinks about what they're suggesting, what they're _planning_ , what they'll expect from him, what it's going to mean, and just -- gives in. "Fuck it," he says. "Let's go kill an alpha." 

The smile Peter gives him is proud. The smile Stiles gives him is bright enough to blind him.


End file.
